A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread
by darcyfarrow
Summary: There's something odd about the words Rumple is laying down in their Scrabble game. For @a-monthly-rumbelling January prompt: "I'm not dressed for this."


"'A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me,'" Belle quoted as they settled down in twin wingback chairs across from one another, the game table between them. And indeed they'd taken Literary Night (i. g., Friday) quite literally: it had been Belle's turn to choose the night's reading and Gold's turn to do the reading-related cooking. After his choice last week of Rick Riordan's _Big Red Tequila_ (Gold had a taste for mysteries) and the subsequent case of heartburn they'd had to solve (really, what drove a 350-year-old man to think he had to prove himself by consuming an entire bowl of jalapeño-topped firehouse chili and wash it down with a tumbler of Texas Sunrise—a shocking mixture of tequila and Big Red soda pop?), they'd agreed a light repast would be preferable tonight.

Besides, Belle adored romantic poetry, especially when she could persuade Gold to read it aloud against the backdrop of a snowy evening and a crackling fire in his antique fireplace, and so "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam" it was, and they'd cuddled on the settee as he read to her, in Farsi, with his Gaelic accent. On the coffee table he'd strewn red rose petals; for their supper he provided a repast of sangak, barley soup, spreadable goat cheese, grapes, and, indeed, mulled Shiraz in a ceramic jug warming beside the fire. She praised him for his cuisine, but he'd shrugged and given credit to the Internet. Between the wine, the fire and quiet, leisurely conversation, she'd nearly drifted to sleep, her head in his lap, until he nudged her: "Game time?" She nodded, prying herself from the arms of Morpheus and her beloved. After all, with his win last week, she had a score to settle.

So they'd relocated to the game table in the center of the spacious but somehow cozy (maybe, she thought, cozy because he was in it) living room. Wide awake now, they settled into their opposing chairs, drew a tile each to decide who'd take the first turn (she won the draw), then filled their trays and studied their options.

He may have been the most powerful sorcerer in the world, but as Scrabble players, they were evenly matched. When they had chosen Scrabble for their weekly game night, they'd assumed she would have an advantage: after all, she read encyclopedias and dictionaries for entertainment. But he had a command of scientific terms, especially chemistry and botany, that he called upon to catch up.

Tonight, though, he seemed a little off his game. For his first turn, he traded in four tiles. On his second, he lay "ring" off her "quince," but he traded in tiles on his third turn. And so it went, with him falling farther and farther behind. By mid-game, she was worried. "Rumple, are you feeling all right?" At his assurance, she pressed, "A headache? Shall I get you some aspirin?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Why?" He lay down "wed" off of her "oozed."

"Just wondering."

His next offering, "babe," built off his earlier "clergy," elicited a frown from her. "You had two 'b's.' Why didn't you use one to make 'booze' and benefit from my 'z'?"

"Guess I didn't think of it." But as he raised his eyes from his tray, she caught a sparkle in them.

They played in silence a little while longer, but she couldn't help huffing at some of his boneheaded moves. It appeared he was intentionally throwing away opportunities for bigger points, instead laying simple words. Her hackles rose: even back in the Dark Castle days, they'd always had an unspoken agreement to give their best efforts. Tonight he seemed determined to lose.

She sat back, sipping her wine and studying the board, not to plan her next move but to scrutinize all of his. Allowing him to hear the irritation in her voice, she read them aloud: "'Ring,' 'babe,' 'wed,' 'will,' 'vow'—Rumple, the best word you've made all night was 'bouquet.' Look at this: 'gown,' 'clergy,' 'you,' 'tonight,' 'wife.'" Her voice dragged as her mind detected a pattern. As she read his most recent offering, she stared at him: "'Wife.'"

A grin took over his face as he spun his tray around so she could see his tiles and the word he'd arranged there. His voice lifted into a question as he read it to her: "'Marry?'"

Her mouth fell open.

He reached under the game table for a small velvet box, then stood, pushed aside his chair, and knelt before her. He opened the box and presented it to her. His voice thickened. "Will you marry me, Belle?"

She dove at him with open arms, knocking them both backwards onto the Persian rug. "Yes! Of course, yes!"

When he finally pried his lips away from hers, he had another question: "Tonight? Please, after all the interruptions we've had to our personal time, let's not wait another day. Who knows what villain tomorrow may bring to our door. Marry me now. If you want a big wedding, we can arrange that with a snap."

"No, I don't want a big wedding. All I want is you."

"Then let's marry tonight. I have the justice of the peace on speed dial. We can call a few friends, move this furniture aside, set up some folding chairs right here, your father has a bouquet prepared—"

"You've spoken to him?"

Rumple ducked his head. "I apologized and made restitution. He accepted my apology. After thirty years, he said, it was probably time for him to admit we were a couple. He'll walk you down the aisle."

"Thank you, Rumple." To Belle, this news was as precious as the diamond ring he was slipping onto her finger.

"Tonight, then?"

"Yes. There's no other place I'd rather be married than right here in this room. Ariel can be my maid of honor and Dove can stand up with you, as he always has." She clambered to her feet. "We'll set it for ten o'clock."

He pulled himself up. "We'd better start making some phone calls. Thank you, sweetheart. It'll be perfect."

But as they both reached for their phones, she glanced down at the slacks and pullover sweater she was wearing. "Oh, Rumple, I'm not dressed for this."

He examined his own inadequate attire: soft cotton trousers and a plain white shirt open at the neck. "Easily fixed." With a snap of his fingers she was clad in a familiar gold ballgown and he, in a tux. "Now, let's make those calls." A wave of his hand and the furniture was replaced with white folding chairs entwined with ivy and baby's breath. The remains of their repast vanished and the red petals reconstituted themselves into long stemmed roses artfully arranged in vases.

"Perfect," Belle sighed.

He cocked his head, admiring her. "Yes. Perfect, Mrs. Gold."

She linked her arm in his. "Let's have a wedding, Mr. Gold."


End file.
